3B
Wednesday, February 14, 2018 // The Statement
Soundtracking: Crying in Public
N
othing is simultaneously as
embarrassing and relieving
as letting the waterworks
flow for the entire world to see.
Yes, I know everyone is staring and
whispering about this grown child (I
am in no way a grown man, so I guess
this’ll have to do) breaking down and
sobbing rather loudly on the fourth
floor of the Shapiro Undergraduate
Library. But if you think about it, it’s
pretty beautiful that everyone trying
to study is witnessing my cynical,
20-year-old shell melt away.
Gross.
Sometimes it be like that. Some days
it’s stressing about work, some days
it’s the inner psyche knocking, some
days it’s because I can’t find my second
glove. Life is overwhelming sometimes
and a good sob is some pretty solid
medicine.
I’m not talking about crying at the
movie theater. Everyone does that. You
aren’t special. I cried last week while
watching a certain movie with an
infamous peach scene.
Visions of Gideon — Sufjan Stevens
For starters, when you expect to
cry at a movie based on what you’ve
already heard about it, it is a largely
anticipated action. You prepare. You
grab extra napkins on the way into the
theater. You wear your fuzzy crying
sweater (everyone has one of those,
right?) and every fiber in your being is
prepared. On top of the anticipation,
many other people in the theater are
also crying. The other sniffles give
you solace and let you know you aren’t
alone. The best is when one person out
of everyone in the theater isn’t crying.
Then they feel left out while everyone
releases their inhibitions à la Natasha
Bedingfield.
Get a heart, Tin Man.
While cathartic, I get much more
satisfaction after the fact when the cry
comes out of nowhere. It’ll suck in the
moment but when it’s over, you walk
forward with a new outlook on life.
And your face is squeaky clean.
I think it’s safe to say everyone at
this University has cried in public at
least once. If this isn’t the case, I have
cried enough to cover at least four or
five people bottling up their feelings.
In the wise words of John Mulaney,
“I’ll just keep all my emotions right
here and then one day, I’ll die.” Stress
just hits you every once in a while. Let
that shit go.
Responsibilities — Thane, BJ the
Chicago Kid, Anderson .Paak
When I’m in the middle of a book,
all responsibilities fall by the wayside
(besides
this
column
of
course).
This was indeed the case recently.
When I finished a heart-wrenching
autobiography by poet and musician
Patti Smith, I was at peace. Then, I
thought for two seconds about how
much work I had skipped over because
I couldn’t stop reading. I had so much
to catch up on and the thought made
me buy a one-way ticket to Sobsville.
I was riding first-class, getting served
tissues and blankets and pints of ice
cream while I composed myself.
After, I was ready to work. You just
need that mini freak-out to drive you
to get shit done.
But this cry is caused by stress.
Stress is terrifying and everyone
should acknowledge it as such.
I am more baffled by the cries that
come out of left field. I can’t really
justify it by saying I woke up on the
wrong side of the bed. Sometimes cries
smack you upside the head with no
explanation.
Fire of Unknown Origin — Patti
Smith
I’ll set the scene. I’m walking through
Angell Hall after lecture, just got out. I
wouldn’t say it was a particularly great
lecture, but nothing that happened
in class would reasonably be sad or
stressful. It’s not like my voice cracked
in the middle of lecture or anything
like that. That would be absolutely
ridiculous and I would definitely sob
after that.
I’m walking through the halls and
I walk past the vending machines.
Another student is staring at the
options, carefully weighing which
high-in-sodium
snack
she
has
a
hankering for today. Completely normal
action. As I pass, I watch her type in
the number of the corresponding snack
on the keypad. It should be a successful
transaction if she concentrated. Just
then, tragedy rears its wicked head.
The moment the machine registers
the number the student chose, it begins
to dispense the snack. It turns out the
student misread the snack she wanted
and hit the wrong number, resulting
in a different outcome than she had
planned. With her head hung low,
she bends down and reluctantly takes
the snack she never truly wanted and
walks away. I stop dead in my tracks.
Oh no.
I Feel the Earth Move — Carole
King
This shouldn’t be happening. I
shouldn’t be affected this way. It was
just a snack. She’ll still get some food,
even if it wasn’t what she specifically
wanted. It was a happy outcome. I
squeeze my fists like the Arthur meme,
trying to stop whatever is going on in
this physiological reaction.
I can feel my ducts welling up. My
bottom lip becomes incredibly heavy,
weighing my entire face down. I start
clearing my throat, trying to mask my
voice breaking.
Students walk around me. I’m sure I
pissed off some kid late for class because
I was just standing still in the hallway,
staring at a vending machine and the
ghost of the previous transaction. But
I wasn’t even conscious. I just wanted
everything to pause like in Adam
Sandler’s classic piece of American
cinema “Click.” I needed a minute to
compose myself.
I Want the World to Stop — Belle
& Sebastian
The first tear is almost ready to
break free from the prison that is my
tear duct. To be fair, the guards in
this prison are incredibly loose, with
inmates leaving all the time but this
specific first tear has been in the pen
for a minute. It is ready to bask in the
glorious fluorescent light of Angell
Hall.
Still blocking the flow of students, I
know we’re past the point of no return.
It’s going to happen whether I want it to
or not. At this point, I don’t really have
time to do any soul searching to try and
connect this vending machine incident
with any specific moment from my
childhood in a path of free association.
All I know is this tear is going to fall
and I am going to have to handle it. At
least I don’t have anywhere to be.
Three, two, one. Blastoff.
Drown In My Own Tears — Ray
Charles
And the floodgates are open! It’s
a free-for-all at this point. I finally
pick up my feet and run into the
Fishbowl. Somehow, I find a seat in
those comically large swivel chairs so
I can attempt to shield myself from the
computer lab patrons.
One caveat to that plan, however. The
Fishbowl earned its name because it’s
completely surrounded by glass. Every
passerby in the hallway is watching me
shed many tears all because someone
chose the wrong selection in the
vending machine. Droplets stain my
shirt and I am confident enough to
say I am an incredibly ugly crier. I’m
basically that photo of Kim K.
You know the one.
Finally, I have run out of tears and
I can move on with my day. While the
reasoning didn’t have a lot of logic, I
feel … free.
Free — Pageants
I have cried many a river, but when I
step outside in the winter months after
a good cry and the cold breeze stings
my cheeks, I feel cleansed. All of my
worries dripped down my face one by
one and now I’m dry, ready to think
constructively about the best ways to
make sure I am keeping up with my
mental health.
I can’t let the worries of the world
drag my shoulders farther and farther
into the dirt. Sometimes, a cry is just
what I need.
It’s not usually expected, but when it
happens, I’m grateful for my fucked-up
psyche.
BY MATT HARMON, DAILY NEWS EDITOR
ILLUSTRATION BY HANNAH MYERS